


Red Sky at Morning

by maokitty



Category: The Walking Dead (TV)
Genre: Angst, Canon-Typical Violence, Comedy, F/M, Fluff, Reader is a doctor and from the city, Themes of racism & misogyny & classism, covers seasons 1 & 2
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-14
Updated: 2020-08-09
Packaged: 2021-03-01 21:33:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23653909
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/maokitty/pseuds/maokitty
Summary: Daryl never expected a college-educated city girl to fall for him, and you never expected a rough-around-the-edges country boy to catch feelings for you. But the apocalypse is the great equalizer, and in these end times, all you have to hold onto is each other.
Relationships: Daryl Dixon/Reader, Daryl Dixon/You
Comments: 13
Kudos: 57





	1. Do No Harm

**Author's Note:**

> **To any readers of colour,** because I’m trying to keep this reader character as racially ambiguous as possible: Merle is racist as hell, but he’s also probably rude enough to indiscriminately harass any young woman, so that’s what’s going to happen here! On a related note, this fic is not going to whitewash Merle's frankly violent racism, nor will it ignore the casual racism that we see from Daryl in S1. Rather, the narrative (and the reader) is going to interrogate both head-on. On the flipside of the coin, this fic will also be addressing classism, particularly that which you'd expect Daryl to receive (and that he's implied to be insecure about in S2). **Please take heed if these discussions will make you uncomfortable.**
> 
> Notes about medical stuff about the bottom.

**Day 1**

"Patient was flown in from Linden County Hospital just now, in critical condition after a thoracic gunshot wound 4 hours ago. Bullet's fragmented so badly that they couldn't do the surgery on site."

Your teeth clench hard and pain shoots through the side of your head. _Temporomandibular joint dysfunction,_ you note to yourself. _I gotta stop grinding my teeth and get myself a nightguard._ Of course _,_ that's the least of your worries as a resident in Emory Hospital's Trauma Care Department, undergoing trial-by-fire even though you'd only gotten your MD a week ago. With the hospitals overwhelmed these days, you hardly have time to sleep, let alone commit to any self-care. 

"Shit," you grit out, rounding the corner. "Pulmonary artery damage?" you guess. 

Nurse Johnson nods beside you, her eyes scanning the clipboard. "It's pretty bad. Bad enough that Linden County couldn't do it themselves. I've seen Dr. Diaz handle worse, but—"

"But she's not available to supervise, huh?" Your fists clench, and you notice the moisture between your fingers. They'll dry out again after you wash your hands for the fourtieth time today, at least. "She still tied up with that freakish new disease?" 

Johnson nods vigorously, and you frown. Emory, Piedmont, Northside: all of the hospitals in Atlanta and far beyond it are being burnt through by a novel infectious agent with an apparent mortality rate of 100%. _Almost fucking unheard of,_ you think. Rabies is also 100%, you suppose, and your pet theory is that the new disease is a genetically related virus, except the prophylactic rabies vaccine is fucking useless. The rabies immunoglobulin shots—useless. Antibiotics, antifungals, antivirals—useless. Even symptom treatment, palliative care— _useless_. No one knows what the fuck is decimating the American people, and worse yet, the military is fucking around in the hospitals now. Your pathologists and hospital-affiliated scientists can't take a look; only the CDC and USAMRIID have access to samples now.

The one saving grace is that the new disease isn't that contagious. As long as patients are bound up and muzzled in the aggressive phase, they can't infect any of the hospital staff, though of course, no one likes to tie up their patients. _Do no harm,_ the Hippocratic Oath echoes in your mind, that vow you'd made to yourself upon becoming a doctor. 

But the American medical system has no choice right now.

As the two of you walk toward the surgery room, you can't help but notice the feverish bodies strapped down to gurneys, moaning through their surgical masks and sweating through their gowns. The hospital is so overwhelmed that patients are spilling out of rooms and almost covering every inch of wall in the hallways. _Poor souls._

But none of that matters right now. When you enter the surgery room, the world around you disappears. You can't hear the moaning patients and thoughts of Dr. Diaz leaves your mind. There's only your patient from Linden County on the operating table, only his pallid face and the bullet fragments in his chest. 

You glance down, the dressings on his leg not escaping you either.

"How'd he end up like this?" 

Johnson glances down at her notes. 

"He's a Sheriff's Deputy. Got shot in an altercation while on duty. Got a wife and son at home." 

Your mouth thins, and you glance at the patient’s wristband, eyes sweeping over his name. _Poor guy,_ you think. _I'll get you home, Rick Grimes._

* * *

**Day 5**

You don't realize what the novel infectious agent really _is_ until you see a patient die for the first time.

You've been up 48 hours, your mind at the edges of delirium. You've stayed up this long studying before and also on calls, but it's never been like this before: overtaxed every waking second, seeing doctors and nurses collapse from exhaustion around you, running out of masks and leaning right over your dying patients, bare-faced, letting them breathe right into your eyes and mouth. At least this new disease isn't too contagious, you think, or you'd be dying too. 

The moans are the worst, you think, and the sound of belts jingling and heart monitors screaming as patients enter their death throes. A pandemic of unknown origin with a 100% mortality rate means a wartime situation for people like you. Soldiers don't get to sleep on the front line.

The current woman in front of you, sallow-faced and drenched in sweat, is an inch away from her own mortality. Your hands shake as you listen to her fading screams. A sleep-deprived voice echoes in your ear: _azithromycin, tetracycline, zanamivir, inmunoglobulin. All didn't do shit._ You sink to your knees, her whimpers layering into your thoughts. _I'm so fucking useless._

In a hospital overwhelmed by patients, every nurse and doctor stretched to the breaking point, no one notices you sinking to your knees. No one sees the way your chest heaves, or the way liquid begins to the floor. No one thinks to ask about how your vision is blurring, how your head is pounding all the way up the sides and around the back. _I'm so fucking tired._ The spots go dark. The light dim. The heart monitor's screaming death in your ears: one long, fucking beep.

An eternity passes.

Then something strange: the endless scream stops. 

_Beep._

You're hallucinating, you think. They need to give you a break. You want to go home to your shitty little apartment, give your family a call and tell them to isolate so they don't catch this shit, get at least a couple of hours of sleep. You're useless like this.

_Beep._

Maybe you need to medicate yourself. An antipsychotic. A seroquel? You're breaking down.

_Beep._

Maybe this is the wrong career for you. Sure, you've saved a couple of people—that boy from that car crash, that Sheriff's Deputy from Linden—but your success rate is otherwise pitifully low. A mortality rate of 100% means that a fuckload of people have died under your care. At the very least, you think, none of your patients have entered the rabies-like aggression phase of the disease. Maybe something in your treatments has been working.

_Beep._

"Come on, brain," you moan. "At least give me a realistic hallucination. Human hearts would never beat so slowly…"

Something jolts. 

You look up, squinting. The patient's fingers twitches, and at first you think you need to be assessed for _bona fide_ psychosis if you're having such a vivid hallucination. But then the whole hand moves, and there's an unmistakable hiss.

_Beep._

You get off your knees, slowly looking over the bed. In the moments after death, a person's eyes eyes don't look remarkably different from their living state, but the patient's dark eyes seem to have lightened, somehow—and muddied up. Her sallow lips are moving too, something _impossible_ for a dead person. Oh, _fuck. Oh fuck,_ she's alive. You have no clue how, because she'd unmistakably died, but she's alive now.

_Beep._

"Shit." You scramble, looking for a vial of epinephrine. You can kick up the heart rate, give her a fighting chance. Maybe you won't be such a fuckup today, maybe you'll _save_ someone—

_Beep._

The gurney trembles. She hisses more. Her throat must be parched, you think, you'll be sure to get her water after this—

_"Move!"_

The doors slam open, and heavy footsteps fill your ears. You jolt back, trying not to drop the little bottle in your hands as you watch several soldiers move in, looking down their guns. "What the _fuck?!"_ you can't help but snap.

_Beep._

One of them looks over at you, then lays eyes on the patient. She seems roused now, kicking at her bonds, growling incessantly. Well, you don't blame her: rabies or no, you're on the edge of growling at these soldiers yourself.

"I'm sorry, but what the actual fuck are you doing in here?" you ask. A little voice whispers that you shouldn't talk like this to a soldier, but you're pushing 49 hours with no sleep and you want to save this woman's life.

"Lieutenant!" the soldier barks. "I've got eyes on one!"

_Eyes on what?_

"You know what to do."

You will never forget these next twenty seconds: the soldier raises the rifle, aims straight for your fucking patient. Your hands loosen, and something shatters on the floor, maybe shatters inside you. You think you scream, but a bang drowns it out, and you _must_ be hallucinating, because even after your patient's midsection is riddled with holes, you still hear—

_Beep._

* * *

**Day 7**

The Atlanta Refugee Safe Zone is two days later, when the government finally admits that they've screwed the pooch and have been covering up the insidious reality that the dead are rising—even from their own healthcare practitioners! Fuck. You haven't heard from Diaz since forever ago, and you wonder if she'd seen what you witnessed already. Hopefully she's done what you're doing and has gotten the fuck away from Atlanta, "safe zone" be damned.

Hopefully the alternative hasn't happened instead. That sergeant had grilled you after you saw your patient reanimate, and you think you were an inch away from being detained. Maybe Diaz had actually been taken away by those soldiers, forever silenced for a truth they wanted to hide. 

Christ, you hope not.

By some stroke of luck, the military had decided to let you go, maybe knowing they couldn't cover this up any longer. You'd worked a couple of days longer in the hospital, providing care in your repurposed surgery ward, until the feds decided to kick out all personnel besides military healthcare providers and USAMRIID scientists. It gave you a good excuse to leave the city. You couldn't find any toilet paper before leaving, but you've stocked up on all the other necessities and even got yourself a machete, though it's not like you even know how to use one. _Probably would have done better with a surgical knife, really,_ you think dryly as you tap at the blade strapped to your thigh.

So now you're on your way out of Atlanta, hoping to make a break for good ol' Linden County. Some other city residents have apparently also figured that Atlanta's a lost cause, because there's a steady stream of outgoing traffic and crying families on your side of the interstate. Not all of them can be doctors, you think, so if they're on the way out, the general population must have already seen the damage that walkers can do.

Your jaw is aching. The state of the city is terrifying, but what scares you more is that on the other side of the highway, there's a steady stream of traffic flowing _into it._

The rush to the Atlanta Safe Zone is so great that people apparently have stopped giving a fuck about lanes not too far out the city. It's nighttime when you see a snarl of traffic in front of you—some refugees driving into the city have crashed into some poor sod up ahead of you in their desperation. Your fingers tap the wheel impatiently as you wonder how much of your shit you can get into your rucksack and how long a walk to Linden would be. The answers are, respectively: probably not very much, and definitely way too fucking long.

No one's going anywhere anytime soon, so you decide to go out to assess the situation. Making sure to lock the door after your step out, you weave between the beeping cars on the highway, letting the headlights and highway lights guide your footsteps. You squint at the crowd gathered up on the other side of the road, and between the dark silhouettes, you can see the glow of the city.

_Guess I'll say my last goodbye since I'm stuck here._

You aren't from Atlanta—you only came here for your residency—but this city had been good to you. Emory had been good to you. Dr. Diaz and Nurse Johnson and all the rest had been good to you. You want to go back to your family, but you'll miss Atlanta and all your friends and coworkers. So you walk through the cars and dodge the shadowy figures that are also making their way to the curb, and you push through the crowd. Atlanta twinkles in the distance, its skyline glorious and maybe doomed before you. 

"Think we'll make it there?" someone asks next to you, words tangled up in a rural accent and gruff voice. You perk up, momentarily thinking that he's asking _you_ , but then you see that he's turned to someone on his other side. "If we'd made it onto one of those helicopters…"

You should warn them, you think.

"Nah," his companion replies. "I told ya. That last one had infected people on it." He pauses, and the Atlanta city lights are momentarily distorted in cigarette smoke. "Fuck, Daryl, I don't even know if it's worth goin' there anymore."

Well, here's your chance.

"It's not," you cut in, making sure to turn your whole body toward them so they know you're talking to them. Oh, boy, you'd normally want to die interrupting strangers like this, but the world is ending and you would like to be a good samaritan one last time. _Do no harm._ "Don't bother with Atlanta. The city's already overrun I bet, and I don't even know how long the military can contain it. I give them two weeks, tops." You close your eyes. If every victim of this disease turns into a mindless predator, the R0 of this shit must be sky-high. Like, higher-than-measles kind of sky-high.

"Oh yeah?" The first speaker turns to you, and you see a pair of keen eyes narrowing and sizing you up. "How'd you figure that, if you're on the road with the rest of us? We ain't gettin' no news on the radio."

"I'm heading the other way," you explain, jerking a thumb back at the opposite lane. "I'm a doctor from Atlanta. Emory was starting to get overwhelmed with infected patients, and so was every other hospital. ICU, emergency, every single facility that was co-opted for this shit, even all the hallways: all filled to the brim with patients. Thousands of walkers in the making. No way they can keep it under control. Already saw firsthand the police, soldiers, even some federal agents losing their shit."

You probably should have softened up the news a bit. Any typical refugee would probably be in tears, you think. But against your expectations, the two men only pause, seeming to give it some thought. The guy nearest to you—Daryl, you recall—looks none too happy, but the one with the shaved head gives a bit of a chuckle, like this is all some funny joke. 

"Shoulda expected the feds to fuck this up." He shakes his head. "So much for that safe zone. _Shit._ "

Daryl grunts in response, and you discern this as a "yeah". He turns to you then, seeming to gesture beyond the city. "If you're headin' out there, I gotta tell you that it ain't no better. Whole damn world's gone to shit. Atlanta Safe Zone was our best bet, but now it looks like we're on our own."

"Ah, fuck." You resist the urge to drop your head into your hands. "Well… thanks."

"No worries. Thanks for warning us about Atlanta." 

You shift uncomfortably. Suddenly, you're acutely aware of how alone you are, and how you can't fathom functioning outside some kind of society. You're used to operating in urban spaces with public transit, coffee shops, grocery stores, used to being a student and even a doctor. But if the whole world's gone to shit, then there might not be a society for you to function in anymore, no shops for you to buy food from, no fossil fuels for you to burn, no hospital for you to work at... 

You study the two men keenly. They're obviously from the countryside, and they've seen more of the rural apocalyptic landscape than you have. No better people than to ask for advice. "Where do you think you'll go?" you blurt out.

One of them shrugs. "Driftin', most like. Might set up camp out here for a bit." He turns to you and you feel the full press of his gaze as it travels up and down your body. Oh, _gross_. "Y'know, Doc, you're welcome to join us… It's a real scary world out there and we'd be _glad_ to protect you."

Being alone in the apocalypse or being stuck with this creep? Oh, god, you aren't sure which is worse. You eye the both of them, taking in their strong builds and weaponry. They probably know how to use a machete, would genuinely be an asset if any walkers came around. On the other hand, the guy who's leering at you might legitimately harm you more than the walkers. 

"Um…"

The man smirks, misinterpreting your contemplative stare.

"Ya like what you see, baby?"

Hmm. Being alone might be the better option.

"No one wants your ugly ass, Merle," his brother interjects, rolling his eyes. _Yes_ , Daryl! This guy doesn't seem so bad. "Listen, Doc, we owe ya one for the warning. You need to ride with someone for the next couple of weeks, we got you."

You hum, pretending to consider. In reality, you've got no other options at the moment—you will probably die outside by yourself, given your lack of survival and combat training—so the choice is fairly obvious. "There's strength in numbers, especially in case of walkers. You two look and sound like you've already seen and handled these things too, much like me. Might be good to stick together."

"Smart girl," Merle praises. "College education doin' ya good. I've got a cozy spot next to me in my tent tonight if you're scared of 'em walkers."

"College prob'ly made her smart enough to stay the fuck away from _you,_ Merle."

"Don't listen to my little brother. He's just jealous of my good looks and _charm_."

"You're a doctor," Daryl continues, ignoring Merle. "Y'know what the clap does, right? You don't want it."

"Fuck you, Daryl."

"Don't blame me, Merle. Figured I owed her another warnin'."

Before Merle can retort, Daryl steps in front of you, blocking him out from your view. Oh, what a nice man. "We're gonna look for a place to set up camp tomorrow. I'm thinkin' not too far from here, somewhere in the mountains. Sound good?"

"Sounds perfect." Hah, not like you'd know where else to go. "I've got some supplies, which I'm happy to share, but not much for camping. Wasn't planning on it." Sure, you had the sense to pick up a tent and a sleeping bag, but besides your finite supply of protein bars and jerky, you don't know what you'll subsist on. Also, you've never done more than glamping.

Daryl shrugs. "We'll figure somethin' out. Hope you like squirrel."

Your brow furrows. "Um, squirrels are cute, I guess?"

Daryl squints at you. "...to eat," he adds.

"Oh." Oh, you're so fucking stupid. Thank fuck you ran into these guys—or, at the very least, Daryl. The jury's out on Merle. "Oh, yeah. I'll eat squirrels. I'll eat anything. Actually, I've got some snacks in my car. Anyone hungry?"

Daryl shakes his head. "Nah." Apparently not a man of many words, all he does is reach into his pocket and take out a pack of cigarettes, you guess as a kind of thank-you and reciprocation. "You feelin' a smoke?"

You shake your head. "No, thank you."

"Suit yourself."

The three of you fall quiet, listening only to the murmurs and whimpers of the crowd around you. You won't lie: the world is ending but you still can't deal with awkward silences between strangers. You wonder if you should bid them goodnight and settle into another night in the car, but before you can execute your plan, a whirring cuts through the air. 

"What the fuck?" 

You look up, eyes narrowing as wind hits your back and whips at your skin. Helicopters cut through the sky above you, flying so low that they're the only thing you can hear, the ground rumbling beneath your feet. You watch as the aircraft fly toward the city.

"Refugees?" you guess. 

"Nah," Merle says, crossing his arms. "That's airforce."

"More reinforcements, then."

"Don't know 'bout that, sweetheart."

Merle ends up being right.

In the blink of an eye, Atlanta is burning. The helicopters hover over the skyline like angels of death as the streets and skies light up, a distant thunder crashing in your ears with each bomb. You can't help but wonder if some of those are intended for the hospitals, overrun by snarling walkers and abandoned, living patients. All those patients in the oncology ward: gone. All those infants in the NICU: gone. All your in-patients recovering from surgeries: gone. All those still-human souls awaiting reanimation in the ER: gone. 

It would only make sense.

Red lightning splits the sky as another bomb hits Atlanta. Merle whistles as he watches. "Napalm," he observes.

"Son of a bitch," Daryl mutters.

_I'm so fucking tired._

The world is overwhelmed, so you expect no one to notice when you sink to your knees and hold your face in your hands. Everyone is at their limits, so you don't think anyone will see how your chest is heaving with crackling air. Your vision blurs, and your jaw aches, and all you want to do is crawl back into your burning apartment and take a nice, long sleep. No one would notice.

But you feel a tap on your shoulder, and when you look up, you meet Daryl's eyes. He doesn't look to be on the same verge of tears that you are, but he's grim-faced all the same. You wonder if he'll comfort you, this kind-ish stranger. He'd be the first person to do within these past few, hellish weeks.

Still a man of few words, he shakes the cigarette box again.

"How 'bout now?"

You shake your head again, trying to even out your breathing so you can reply without embarrassing yourself.

"...no thank you. But I've got some drinks in my trunk. You boys like beer?"

"Hell, woman, you don't gotta ask. Crack 'em open."

Daryl brings a cigarette to his mouth, lights it up. For a brief moment, his lighter burns as bright as the city, and a trail of smoke distorts the red glow of the sky.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Helloooo! Sorry for the delay in updates; I promise I've gotten quite a bit more of this fic written, just haven't found the time to post it here. :) 
> 
> Warning for sexual harassment by Merle. There’s a brief reference to the age of the reader, but it’s ultimately ambiguous (you could be any age from early 20s to mid-30s).

**Day 8, 0800**

In the wake of Atlanta’s fall, refugees begin reversing on the interstate and detangling the knot of traffic that’s keeping you stuck on the side of the road. But before then, it’s a long and awkward morning as you wait to drive out with the Dixon brothers.

Though you’d gotten a general sense of their appearance last night, the daylight reveals little details you hadn’t noticed. Both of them look like tough motherfuckers, and the way that Merle moves suggests something distinctly military about him, reminding you of all the soldiers from Emory Hospital. In comparison, Daryl doesn’t feel as dangerous, even though his expression looks surly at all times. (Well, maybe yours is too, given the fact that Atlanta got bombed by the American military last night.) He’s sitting quietly near you, reasonably amicable even if a bit quiet, and Merle is… Merle.

“I can’t thank you enough for picking me up,” you make small talk over your breakfast of protein bars—chocolate-flavoured today. “If there’s anything you’d like in return, let me know.”

"Well, I’d like some of _you_ , Sugar Tits.” Merle gives a toothy grin, and you try not to cringe. You’d prefer to stick with people while American civilization collapses, so for now, you shouldn’t offend your fellow travelers. Not even Merle.

“…I liked it better when you called me ‘Doc’,” you laugh nervously.

“Alright then, Doctor Sugar Tits.”

Well. That’s sort of a step up, you guess.

Daryl, bless his soul, cuts in on your behalf again. You wonder if he’s the only thing keeping his brother in line most of the time. “Try not to piss off our only doctor, won’t ya?”

“Aww, but she loves it! Don’t ya, sweetheart?“

You shoot a pained look at Daryl, who only grimaces back at you. He passes you a bottle of water, taking the opportunity to lean in and whisper, "That’s just how Merle is. Hate to say it, but if you stick with us, you’ll be hearing him run his asshole mouth the whole time.”

You sigh, staring dolefully at the water in your hands as you resign yourself to a week of sexual harassment. Merle is better company than the walkers, you guess. “Don’t worry about it. Thanks for trying to keep him in check.” You flash Daryl a little smile, and the corner of his mouth twitches.

“Ain’t nothin’.”

You’re relieved when you set out on the road, Merle weaving through the traffic on his bike, and Daryl driving a truck of practical supplies behind him. You follow in your car, feeling absurdly misplaced in comparison, but you’re mostly grateful that they’re letting you tag along. Based on the arsenal of weapons and supplies in that truck, you chose the right people to ride with.

Merle leads you both off the interstate, takes you into a nice little quarry that seems fairly deserted. You wonder if you’ll set up camp here, utterly alone with the two men. You could imagine camping alone with Daryl and not losing your mind… but camping alone with Merle in addition to Daryl… Your lips thin as you mull over your options once more.

Then you spot the group.

* * *

**Day 8, 1100**

“Hey, I’m Glenn.”

Handshake.

“T-Dog. Nice to see another survivor here.”

Handshake.

“I’m Carol, and this is Sophia—”

“Nice to meet you, ma'am!” Sophia chirps, holding out a little hand, and you can’t help but melt. Oh, what a darling. Another two handshakes.

“—and this is Ed, my husband.”

Something’s off about Ed. During rotations and internships, you’d met a couple of probable abusers and battered women, seen your fair share of bruises and knife wounds and fearful mannerisms. Carol’s shadowy wrist doesn’t escape you, nor does the wary and cagey look to Ed’s eyes as he studies you. So full of suspicion. Still, you put on your professional face for him, beaming as you introduce yourself.

Another handshake.

“I don’t know everyone at this camp,” Carol says, leading the three of you along, “but this is Lori and Shane over here. Shane’s a police officer, and he’s just been so helpful with organizing and protecting us.”

You perk up when you see Shane, eager to shake his hand. He radiates an air of authority and confidence and you can’t help but notice he’s packing muscle and weapons. He seems like a real survivor, much like Daryl and Merle, and therefore a good person to know.

“Pleasure to meet you,” he says, flashing a true smile at you, and then he turns to Daryl and Merle. You don’t miss how his mouth drops noticeably with the two of them; you don’t quite know what’s going through his mind, but you guess the Dixon brothers don’t look as disarming as you. He’s probably wary of them, you think.

If the Dixons notice or care at all, they don’t let it on, just introducing themselves with straight faces. “Mind if we set up camp here?” Daryl asks. “My brother 'n I can hunt and track. Could provide for your group.”

“That would be real helpful,” Shane replies. “Could use some more muscle around here, especially in case of the walkers.” He points around the group, fingers jabbed at different individuals. “Glenn’s volunteered for supply runs into the city, says he’s real quick with them. Dale’s got a sweet set-up with his RV, got the camp running with a generator and all. Got a couple of sisters over there who’ve been fishing all morning for us too.”

You shift uncomfortably, feeling distinctly out of place. You’re out of your depth here, not suited at all for apocalyptic camping. Still, you guess you should show some kind of value and not look like a complete burden, though you probably are.

“I’m a doctor,” you offer. “Hope it won’t come to that, but if anyone gets hurt or sick, I’m happy to help. Got a trunk full of first aid supplies.” It also has a full stash of antibiotics and basic surgical tools, but nobody needs to know that quite yet.

Shane raises his eyebrows, looking thoroughly surprised. “Hell! We’re lucky to run into you, Doc. Happy to have you onboard.”

It circulates around the camp that there’s a doctor in their midst. You feel like a sham that you’re giving them hope: truthfully, with only the bare bones surgery kit and medical supplies, you can only be so useful, especially since you have no experience with battlefield medicine and have only ever worked out of fully-equipped hospitals. Still, as the group of you settle down near the stream, you find yourself dutifully answering questions.

“You were working at Emory?” a blonde—one of the fishing sisters—asks you. “I’ve got friends there.” Judging from her accent and social circle, you immediately pin her for a “city girl”, as Merle often calls you. You try to ignore how he’s eyeing her hungrily from the periphery, and wonder what sort of nickname he’s going to end up giving her. None the wiser, the blonde continues, “…you must have seen them, then.”

“The walkers?” Your professional smile somehow doesn’t waver. “Yeah. Yeah, I’ve seen them. Had to treat some of them.”

A hush falls over the group. T-Dog’s the first to break it, asking, “Did you save any of your patients?”

A pause. You wish you could offer an easier answer, consider maybe softening it up, but you remember how the government dragged its feet with the truth, the pains that it took to fabricate lies. _Do no harm._ You won’t be like them. You _can’t_ be like them.

“…no.”

Sharp, drawn breaths, faces dropping. Even Shane wipes his jaw, looking away. Only the Dixons seem steady on their feet: Daryl sits there, stone-faced and absorbing. Merle gives a little “huh”, though it’s more musing than shocked. Maybe they’d already guessed this much based on the little details that had slipped out of you last night.

“…we tried a lot of things,” you continue. “Lots of different medications for bacteria, viruses, parasites. Had a lot of pathologists try to study the bodies—hell, I studied one myself.” _Opened him up with a surgical knife before I took a saw to his skull,_ but no one needs to know that. As you trim away bits of your story, something moans at the inner corners of your mind: _fucking useless._ You try not to remember those nightmare moments in the ER, how that patient’s life had slipped right through your fingers, how her torso had been riddled with holes.

“So you have any idea what’s causing it?” Shane tries, pulling you out of your reverie and back into the sunny quarry. When you focus again, you don’t miss the hopeful stares you’re getting. If you didn’t have so much practice delivering bad news, you’d be wincing right now.

“Not many leads with that,” you reply. “My personal theory is that it’s some kind of rabies-like virus, but no one can be sure… CDC and military took over a lot of the research before the hospital collapsed. They’d have more of a lead.”

“Military research,” Merle interjects, “as in USAMRIID?“

You raise a brow. Surprise, surprise. "…yeah. You in the military?”

“Used to be,” he replies. “Marines.”

You nod. Called it. “Yeah. It would either be USAMRIID or the CDC that has answers. Although…” Your jaw tightens, and a vermilion night sky flashes before you, accompanied by whirring blades in the sky. “…personally, I’d bet on the CDC having more of a lead.”

"But you can’t be sure,” a woman interjects, her voice brisk and brow knotted up. “It sounds like none of you have a damn clue about what it is, or how to cure it. Maybe—maybe there’s no end to this?”

T-Dog puts a hand on her shoulder, voice softening. “You can’t think like that, Jacqui.”

_Neither can you,_ you remind yourself. _Even if you’re fucking useless._

Maybe there’s a bit of discomfort in your expression, because the blonde from the start of the conversation is giving you a reassuring look. “You’ve done a lot already. I know you frontline workers were having a really tough time during all of this. I’ve heard the stories from my friends.”

“How do you know so many doctors?” you ask, eager to move along the conversation.

“Did my Bachelor’s with them. A lot of them went into medicine, though I went into law myself. Civil rights.”

You perk up. A conversation about school is something you can do. “That’s amazing. Civil rights lawyer—you must have done a lot of important work.”

The woman smiles. She sticks out her hand: more handshakes. “Name’s Andrea. Pleased to meet you. Where’d you go for school?”

The two of you begin to chat, trying to figure out if you have any mutual acquaintances, if you’d ever been to each other’s favourite spots in the city, how shit school had been and what sort of hobbies you might share. After a solid week of only talking to other hospital staff and then 16 straight hours with the Dixon brothers (bless them, but you do _not_ click), it feels nice to talk to someone new.

To the side, you see a figure stand up abruptly. When you glance over, you see Daryl wiping dirt off his pants. “Where are you going?” you ask, leaning over to look at him, though he’s busy surveying the area.

“Gotta set up camp,” he replies gruffly. “Someone’s gotta do it—Merle’s lazy ass sure won’t.”

His brother flashes his signature grin. “Now, why’d I want to look at your sorry ass puttin’ up some tents when I could be getting to know our _beautiful_ company?” He looks between you and Andrea, eyes lingering especially long on your new acquaintance, and send a silent prayer her way. You would be worried about her if her expression hadn’t just immediately snapped into something hostile. She leans in close to you, brow raised.

“He’s a real piece of work, huh?” she mumbles.

“My god,” you moan, “you don’t know the half of it.”

“How’d you end up with these two?” She glances back and forth between you and the men. “You’re a very… mismatched group.”

You give a little shrug. “Met randomly during that crazy traffic jam last night. We drank together, so I guess we’re sort of buddies now.” A wry smile on your face, you add, “Merle’s a bit much, but Daryl’s definitely good people. I promise they’re not that bad.”

Before Andrea can reply, Merle cuts in: “What are ya whispering about over there, Doctor Sugar Tits?”

She gives you a thoroughly unimpressed look.

“Not that bad? Really, now?”

* * *

**Day 10**

The Dixon brothers don’t mesh well with the rest of the group.

You’d known from the start that Merle would be a problem. If witnessing the walking dead hadn’t given you unlimited patience with the living, you might have already tried to kill him yourself (except not actually, because he could probably snap your neck). Sometimes you think that Andrea and T-Dog are close to it, and really, you can’t blame them.

It’s the younger brother’s standoffishness that surprises you the most. Daryl plays with others _much_ better than Merle, but people still seem reluctant to interact with him, and _he_ seems equally hesitant to get close to them. You’re not sure why. Though he typically wears an expression resembling a wet cat (a very cute one, as all wet cats are), you’ve noticed that he’s actually quite a nice person, what with how he let your defenseless ass tag along with him and does his part to pitch in with the camp. It’s strange that there’s a gap between him and the others, but you’re determined to bridge it.

“It’s really nice of you, hunting for all of us!” you call out to him.

Daryl glances up from his squirrel, nods at you as you sit down next to him. He shrugs at your compliment as he flattens the little critter on a stump, belly face-down.

“Least Merle and I can do after they let us join their camp. Lotta city folk here who are gonna run outta food real quick if I don’t pitch in.” He frowns as he sizes up the animal. “I should go out for a real hunt, maybe catch us all some venison.”

_Mmm,_ venison. You and your stomach are so glad you met Daryl Dixon. “Hah, as a city folk, I appreciate it.”

“Figured you would. You’ve never hunted a day in your life, huh?”

You wince. “Guilty as charged. Was it that obvious?”

“What was it you said? 'Squirrels are cute’?”

You groan. “ _Don’t_ make me relive that.”

He makes a quiet noise that’s halfway to a laugh. “Well, if you like squirrels, you shouldn’t stick around for this.” He grabs the tail of his catch. “Ain’t pretty.”

“Actually, I’d _like_ to watch if that’s okay with you.” When he raises a brow, you explain, “I gotta learn to fend for myself, and there’s no one better to learn from.”

It’s a compliment, but for some reason, Daryl looks down, pointedly focused on the squirrel. Oh, you hope you didn’t say something weird. Or maybe you’re annoying him right now, getting all up in his business as he tries to go about his daily tasks. _It’s the apocalypse,_ you moan internally, _can’t my social skills get it together?_

If Daryl is put off, though, he doesn’t show it. “Don’t say I didn’t warn ya,” he brushes off a moment later.

You watch Daryl as attentively as you’d watched demonstrations back in school. It’s ultimately not so bad: after breaking the tailbone and making a couple of cuts on the hind legs, he can essentially pull the skin right off. Your eyes widen as you watch him expertly gut the thing.

When he picks up his second squirrel, you interrupt: “Can I give it a shot?”

Daryl gives you a skeptical look. “We gotta actually get meat off this thing,” he says bluntly. “I ain’t eatin’ any of your protein bars.”

You give him a pleading look. “Please? I gotta learn! Help a poor city girl out.”

He shakes his head, but ultimately seems to take pity on you. “Better get enough to fry up,” he grumbles as he gestures to the squirrel.

“You will!” you chirp. And you get right to work. You fumble around a bit at first, not exactly used to holding a dead rodent or removing the fur from its backside. But once you get into the actual skinning part, the motions come easily, even if slowly: _Break the tail. Two incisions, one above each thigh. Now pull in the cephalic direction,_ you narrate as you focus on the squirrel. _Skin slides right off, mesentery and all. Now it’s just gutting._ It’s a little strange pulling out innards without gloves, the entrails warm and wet between your fingers, but you remind yourself that this isn’t a patient and it shouldn’t be dangerous. In your periphery, you can see one of Daryl’s brows inch upward steadily.

When you finish up, he whistles. “Not bad. Blood don’t bother you?”

“I’m a surgeon,” you explain. You’re a surgery _resident_ , speaking honestly. If the world hadn’t fucking ended, you might have some day finished your residency and been a full-fledged surgeon, but you don’t think that’ll ever happen now.

He doesn’t seem to question how young you are for a 'surgeon’, simply replying, “Huh. No kiddin’.” He looks at you. “You cook?”

“Um… well, never squirrel.”

“Skinnin’s not the whole job. Gotta hunt and cook too, Doc.”

“Well, show me how it’s done, Chef Dixon.” That earns you a snort. “I’m serious. I’ll watch you fry up this first squirrel and then I’ll do the next one.” You lean in, smiling and wondering how far you can push his surprising tolerance of you. “Maybe I could watch you hunt too? Learn my way around a crossbow and rifle?”

“Yeah, right. You’ll scare off all the damn game.”

“Hey!” You frown, but relax when he shows a little smirk.

Daryl picks up the two squirrels and gets up, and you scramble to follow him. You notice how heavy your footsteps are in comparison to his. Dammit, you _would_ scare off all the game, you think. You’re busy mulling over how you’ll _ever_ learn to use a gun now—you aren’t nearly as comfortable with anyone else so as to ask them—when Daryl adds, “It ain’t such a bad idea though, showing you your way around a gun.”

“No?”

“Yeah. For when the walkers catch up.”

A pause, filled only by the sound of your heavy footsteps.

“You think they will?”

He gives you a flat look. “If you didn’t think it, you’d be a damn fool.”

The both of you stop, and you kick at the dirt. Some rocks clatter around your feet: more noise. “How long do you think this camp will last?”

“You said it yourself: two weeks 'til they get out of Atlanta.”

“Hm. I did.” You try not to remember all the hissing bodies strapped to gurneys. Try not to think of that squirming body, riddled with holes. Try not to think of stepping into the surgical ward only to see a bleeding nurse and a bloody mouth on your patient. If you fall to your knees and have another meltdown, you’ll embarrass yourself, because Daryl’s nice and you’ve gotten buzzed together, but he’s ultimately still sort of a stranger.

“…well,” you perk up, trying to move past those sombre thoughts, “you better teach me soon, Instructor. Can we start with a rifle? I like the idea of something long range. Wanna stay as far away as possible from those corpses.”

Another snort. “I’d never let you near a damn rifle.” He sizes you up. “But maybe a handgun could work. Yeah, that’d do.”

**Day 13**

“I can’t believe I let you near a damn rifle.”

You grin as you shift the gun back and forth in your hands. Daryl does not smile back. With any other person, he’d be yelling at them for touching his brother’s shit, but he’s only watching you skeptically as you study the weapon. Andrea’s mentioned a couple of times how mind-boggling she finds Daryl’s grudging patience for you, but you think it’s not _so_ strange. There are some things that you can’t help but bond with people over, and drinking beer and smoking cigs while watching Atlanta burn is one of them.

After several painful moments, Daryl finally says, “You’re gonna hurt yourself. Give that—“

“Don’t worry!” you reassure him, stepping away from him. His skeptical look edges into a frown. “I’ll take full responsibility. If I get hurt, it’s my fault, not yours.” Clumsily, you lift up the thing and try to hold it the way you’ve seen Merle do it. You perk up as you look down the scope. “Ooh, I look through this to aim, right?”

“Don’t get ahead of yourself. You’ll give yourself scope eye shootin’ like that.” Daryl grips the gun and places the butt firmly against your shoulder, adjusting your form.

“Scope eye?”

“Yeah. Shoot this thing holdin’ it wrong and you’ll get a black eye from the recoil.”

You close an eye, looking down the barrel of the gun. “Have you gotten scope eye before?”

“When I was a kid.” He grabs the rifle from you and jerks it away, making you pout. “Hey, don’t give me that look. It ain’t a toy.”

“Yeah, yeah.” You study him as he slings it across his back, thinking on how he seems to be comfortable handling every kind of weapon—crossbows, rifles, shotguns, handguns. “I can’t imagine you giving yourself scope eye. You’re so good at this stuff.”

“ _'This stuff_?’ Hell does that mean?”

“Surviving!” you exclaim. “I feel like you’re one of the few people who could actually, y'know, really make it through all of this, if it turns out that the walkers…”

_If it turns out that the walkers have overrun society._ You feel the muscles around your eyes relaxing, the smile holding them up suddenly slipping away.

Daryl seems eager to move past the hitch in your words. “Grow up like me,” he says, “and you gotta learn these things. Didn’t have no grocery stores where we were, Doc. I ain’t nothin’ special.” His tone is nonchalant all the way through. He really _does_ take his skill-set for granted, you realize, but oh, you would die to have it right now.

“That makes sense. Well, now there won’t be grocery stores _anywhere._ ” You sigh. “Who taught you all this, anyway? Your parents, I guess?”

Daryl’s jaw tightens immediately, averts his gaze, and it takes everything not to wince. You can tell when you’ve hit a sore spot, and this one looks particularly painful.

“It was mostly Merle,” he replies, curt. He turns around. “'nough playin’ around. I’ve got shit to do.” He waves once as he begins his retreat.

You open your mouth to reply, but Daryl’s already walking off, steps light and quick. It doesn’t feel great, but you don’t blame him for cutting out and closing off. You may have watched the world burn together, might have bonded as you tried to make a strange, transient home out of this quarry, but you still barely know the guy.

* * *

**Day 14**

“Oh my _god,_ Daryl.”

Daryl walks out of the woods with a bloody cloth tied around his arm, his expression apoplectic. You feel your stomach drop as you watch the red stain grow. Lori, not so far away, somehow gets paler than she already is, and walks over immediately.

“Is that—?” she begins.

“From an arrow,” Daryl cuts in. “Huntin’ accident. Some blind idiot shot me.” He gives both of you a flat look as he unravels the cloth. “Close your mouth, you’ll catch flies. Here, see—not a damn bite.”

Your chest deflates and Lori’s sighing, whispering a _thank god_. As soon as you hear her whisper, your brows are knitting right back up.

“I’m glad,” she says. “Glad—I mean—that you’re okay. Do you need anything? Oh, actually…” She smiles at you. “You’re a doctor. I’ll leave you to it. Don’t want to get in the way.”

You try not to stare as she leaves, seeming more or less unperturbed. Are you hallucinating or did she not see Daryl’s wound? Maybe she doesn’t care? Between her not-very-secret trysts with Shane and the way she sometimes talks to other people, you don’t quite know what to think of her. You shake your head, leaving her be.

“Well, I’m glad you’re not bitten, but an arrow wound isn’t good either,” you remark, glancing up at Daryl. Possessed by force of habit, you make your way over to him and grip his upper arm, leaning in to take a look. His muscles grow taut beneath your fingertips, and his stare on you is almost hawk-like, but you don’t care much, too focused on assessing the damage. “Hmm. It’s not exactly shallow. You’re lucky this didn’t hit any tendons.”

“Just grazed me,” he replies. “Not a big deal.”

You frown, studying the wound as it continues to ooze red. Though serious damage would be unlikely in this scenario, you still would have definitely had people coming to the ER for this sort of injury in the city.

“It’s bleeding an awful lot. Let me stitch you up so it’ll at least heal right.“

"Don’t bother.” He pulls away. “Merle can do it.”

You stare.

“…he’s been doing it since I was a kid,” he says when he sees your expression. “It’s fine. We’ve been good without doctors.”

No _doctors_? Shit, rural healthcare is worse than you thought. More importantly, you’re wondering what kind of injuries he’d been getting as a kid that Merle had to stitch him up regularly. Other hunting accidents, maybe? He _did_ say that he had gone through his own learning curve.

None of that matters right now, of course—he’s now got a doctor as far as you’re concerned, and so he has someone to go to other than his brother. “Oh, come on, it’ll be quick. Merle’s not around right now, and I’m free anyway.” _Also, I’d rather die than see someone get stitched up improperly in front of me._ You turn on the doe eyes as you look up at him, hoping he’ll cave.

Daryl returns your stare, looking stone-faced for all of 10 seconds. Then, he finally relents.

You discover that he’s an ideal patient. Daryl doesn’t wince when you wash his wound, nor when you swab it with alcohol. There’s no need, but you chat to distract him from any potential pain when you get to the actual stitching, just like with any of your patients back at Emory. (Well, the conscious ones.) Not having much else in common, you go back to your favourite topic of conversation: survivalism.

“So, I don’t have a compass. Stupid of me, but it just slipped my mind during all the chaos, and I never grabbed one.”

You thread the needle.

“You don’t need one.”

“No?”

“Nah. You can tell direction from the sun. They don’t teach y'all in Emory where it rises and sets?”

Whoa. Is he teasing you? You press down a smile, trying not to look too delighted. “Okay, okay. The sun. Any other tricks? Like the moss thing? It’s supposed to only grow on the north side of trees, right?”

The needlepoint pauses on his skin.

“Pft. That’s a bunch of bull,” Daryl replies. “You can look for runnin’ water though. Always flows toward basins, so you’ll know where you’re going.”

One stitch. You can feel his arm tensing and see his fist tightening, but he otherwise doesn’t even flinch.

“Guess I gotta figure out where the basins are.”

He gives you an obviously confused look. “Haven’t ya ever looked at a map?”

“…I’ve looked at Google Maps? Of Atlanta?”

A moment of silence passes.

“I’m going to die out here, aren’t I?” you moan.

“You said it, not me.”

“Ugh…”

Two stitches.

“How about stars?” you try.

“What about 'em?”

Three stitches.

“You don’t use them to navigate? Like, the north star? Big Dipper? Sailors do, right?”

Four stitches.

“Do I _look_ like a sailor to you?”

“Okay, fair… I just thought they could still be used for navigating on land! Like at night, when there’s no sun for directions and if you didn’t have any running water nearby.”

Daryl snorts. “Have you _seen_ the trees around here? You think you can see any stars in the forest?” You glance up from his arm just in time to see a frown. “Why’d ya be wandering around so much at night anyway?”

Five stitches.

“I dunno, probably because I’ve gotten lost?”

He shakes his head. “You’d get yourself more lost that way. Nah, when you’re lost in the woods, you stay put. Higher chance that someone’ll find ya.”

You give a wry little smile.

“I don’t think there’ll be any search and rescue parties anymore, Daryl. If my dumb ass gets lost, I’d be on my own.”

You swab the wound one more time, then take out some gauze and bandages. You try to be as gentle as possible when you dress the injury, especially since he’s staring intently at your fingers.

Even when you finish, he’s still looking at your hands.

“Nah, Doc,” he finally replies. “I’d find you. Couldn’t leave your helpless ass out there alone.”

“’Helpless’?! _Wow…“_

* * *

**Day 18**

You’ve decided that you’re sick of camping.

Daryl would give you endless shit if you ever voiced these thoughts, but you miss your bed at home. You miss air conditioning. You miss having a washroom! You’re getting tired of the hot days and damp nights and, most importantly, getting up in the middle of the night to piss behind a tree. All the bug spray in the world can’t seem to keep the mosquitoes off your legs—or your ass—and you’re always torn between wandering too far away from camp versus staying too close and having someone potentially walk in on you.

As you stumble out of your tent, all you can think is, _fuck this._

Your mood is a little better after you step out of the bush, finally relieved. As you move out into the open space where everyone has set up camp, you can’t help but look at the stars. Since Atlanta burned out, there’s been no light pollution at all touching these country skies. You don’t think you’ve ever seen so many stars before, this collection of diamonds smeared across the sky. Humming softly, you try to pick out the obvious constellations and landmarks: is that the north star, and is that the Big Dipper, and could that be Venus? You’re not sure. At least the river of the Milky Way is obvious.

Almost quicker than you can blink, something streaks across the sky. _Oh shit, a shooting star!_ You never see those in the city.

"Stargazin’?”

You glance over, jumping a little. He’d been so quiet that you hadn’t noticed his approach—he _is_ a hunter, you remind yourself, though he isn’t tracking any game right now—but you nod at Merle when you see him.

"Hey. Yeah, I am. You don’t get this kind of view in the city.”

Merle chuckles as he moves close to you. “Yeah, you don’t. Real nice, ain’t it?”

You quirk a brow, stepping back a bit at the words. How very un-Merle-like of him. His breath smells like beer and cigarettes, so you guess he must be very drunk at minimum.

“Uh, yeah.” You try to joke, “Best thing to come out of the apocalypse, I guess. No more light or dust pollution.”

While you’re busy looking upward, you don’t notice that Merle inching closer and closer toward you—not until you can feel his breath on the side of your face. You’re used to fresh air these days, and the stench is unbearable in comparison.

“Right,” he draws. “The apocalypse.”

“…yup.” You look away, feel a jitter in your legs and a tightness in your chest. Merle’s been somewhat insufferable, but he’s been nice enough to let you stay with him and Daryl. He won’t do anything, you try to convince yourself, but your heart jumps when he leans in even closer.

“The world could end tomorrow, y'know.”

“H-hahah!” You hope you don’t sound too terrified. “Don’t tell me you’re going to use the 'this could be our last night on Earth’ line on me? You could definitely do better than that.”

Even looking away, you can’t escape how his expression twists, pleased and self-serving and distinctly predatory. “Sorry, sweetheart. You’re right. I could do better by you.”

You jump when you feel something brushing against the back of your neck. Fingers, you realize. Your mouth thins, mind doing quick math: how do you get out of this situation? Back before the apocalypse, you would have slapped a man like this and been done with it, but now…

…now he’s one of the people you rely on for survival.

You lean back, teeth grit and jaw aching. Ah, fuck, you think inanely—you’ll never be able to get a nightguard now.

“Nahh, you don’t have to better by me.” You watch him closely, trying your best to follow his microexpressions in the dark. Is he clueless? Getting impatient? You can’t tell. “Actually,” you try, “you don’t have to do _anything_ by me.”

His expression drops, but he doesn’t move away. Merle only steps in closer, and you watch him, eyes wide and knees shaking. Is this what fawns feel like when they’ve got a hunter staring them down?

"Playin’ hard to get, huh?” A finger reaches out to your hair. “I know that game. I always end up winnin’.”

_Ffffuck._

Your heart is throbbing in your ears.

“Aww, sweetheart, don’t look so scared.”

Something touches your waist, and you squeeze your eyes shut. _Noooo, noooo, no no no_ —

“Jesus, Merle, _anyone’d_ be scared if they had to look at your ugly mug up close.”

Oh, thank _fuck!_

Through your rapid-fire heartbeats, you hear Daryl’s footsteps. They’re loud—louder than you’ve ever heard before—and his movements are heavy as he grabs Merle’s shoulder and rips his brother clean off you. Merle stumbles back, unbalanced in a way that you’ve never seen him before, and right then you know he _must_ be fucked up on something.

“Aw, shut up,” Merle groans. “You ruined the mood.”

“You’re _welcome._ It was a shit mood,” Daryl shoots back easily, and even though he doesn’t seem worried, you feel a hand grabbing your arm and jerking you away quickly. You look back at Merle as you retreat, see him spitting on the ground.

“Didn’t want her anyway, ugly bitch…”

Merle continues to mutter to the earth, but his voice gets fainter and fainter until you can hardly hear it through your heavy breaths and the twigs crunching beneath Daryl’s feet. He ends up leading you in front of your little tent, then pulls away immediately. The bit of skin where his hand used to be feels cold, and you cover it up when you wrap your arms around yourself.

“Did he do anything to you?” Daryl asks, voice low.

"N-no, I’m fine.”

He stares at you, almost as if searching your eyes. “Really?”

You nod vigorously, gripping your arms even tighter. A sigh reaches your ears.

“…Merle does a lot of stupid shit, but especially when he’s high. I’ll keep his doped-up ass in check. Promise I won’t let anythin’ happen to you.”

You swallow, and the shivers ease up a bit.

“Th-thanks. A lot.” You look up, connect with his gaze. In these nighttime shadows, the circles beneath his eyes look darker than usual. “I owe you one.”

He taps his healing arm. “Ain’t nothin’. I owe you one too.” That makes you smile a bit. Very cute, you think again, as all wet cats are.

“Oh, don’t say that.” You look up at him, mouth slanting a bit. “You look and act tough, but you’re actually a _huge_ softie, aren’t you?

” _Shut up_ ,“ he grumbles, and you can’t help but give a breathy laugh.

"It’s true!” you tease. “You do a lot for me, you know?”

Daryl shrugs and looks away from you, up at all those stars that he claimed not to know, claimed to not need. You think about how he offered you cigarettes as Atlanta burned, about how he told you to follow running water, about how he fixed your hands around that rifle and warned you not to hurt yourself. You think about how firm his fingers felt in that moment, and how warm they felt just now.

You think about how he did all this, even though you’re just strangers, and you think about how maybe you aren’t just that anymore.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Haha yes, I know what you’re all thinking. “Where is the temperamental Season 1 Daryl I remember?” I promise, he’s coming next chapter.

**Author's Note:**

>  **Addressing the medical details:** I’m not an HCP and also not American, so the depiction of the triage system and various treatments may not be accurate here. I’m extrapolating a lot from what my friends (doctors) are saying, what I’ve observed around the world during the current pandemic, and what we saw on Season 1 of TWD. 
> 
> That being said, I was a hospital-affiliated genetics researcher for five years, so some of the medical details are based on those experiences. If you have any questions about those details in the fic, feel free to ask!


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